Well, that was quick. From e-mail:
Voting for the Hugos is over, so now you can tell us: Do you think you’ll win?
Honestly? Nah. I mean, I could win, either for Best Novel or Best Fan Writer, and I’d be happy either way. Awards are fun, and it’s nice to stand on stage and have people applaud in your general direction. I have an ego; it likes to be gratified. Please feel free to do so. Also, you know: I think The Last Colony is pretty good, and I think I’m an excellent representative of a genre fanboy. Both are reasonable choices for a Hugo. At the same time, I’m not stupid or delusional, nor will I just die if I don’t win. I have what I think is a reasonably good estimation of my chances among the respective field of nominees in each category I’m nominated in. My expectation: Eh. Entirely possible I could win, but best not to clear off space on the mantelpiece just yet.
My position on it all is that I like being nominated. It’s nice to have written a book and have science fiction fandom say that it’s one of the five best examples of the genre that year; it’s nice to have people look at what I’m doing here at Whatever and say, hey, that’s some good fandom. I like being in the company of Charlie Stross and Robert J Sawyer and Michael Chabon and Ian McDonald, and in the company of Chris Garcia and Steven Silver and Cheryl Morgan and Dave Langford. One could do worse. It’s fun, and you get to feel pretty for a few months, and then it goes away and hopefully you’ve enjoyed it. Ruining that enjoyment through undue neurosis about winning the thing seems silly.